


Rhythm and Ease

by Pigeon



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, D/s, Dom/sub, First Time, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, PTSD, musician!JDM, soldier!Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-01
Updated: 2010-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt 'Jeff is a piano player in a bar in 1946 and Jensen is the GI who was just released from service after The War and who's harboring some doubts about his sexuality.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythm and Ease

His fingers are idling across the keys.

A sloppy rendition of 'Since I Fell For You' tripping into 'Round Midnight' and back again, before settling on the series of loose slung chords that have been skirting the edge of his consciousness for days. Quick beat, hint of vibrato, little melody to speak of.

It isn't the music Old Pete wants Jeff to play, it isn't the music Old Pete _pays_ Jeff to play, but it's three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon and Jeff is damned if he's going to stick to the same old Stephen Foster pieces – not when Pete's off getting his dick sucked by Mary-who-works-on-the-corner, same as he does every third day.

Charlie has topped up his glass of whiskey and he pauses to take a slow sip. It's not good, it's as cheap and watered down as most of the drinks the bar serves. A drop clings to his lower lip, and he darts his tongue out to capture it. The bottle kept by his mother ( _hidden at the back of the sideboard, sandwiched between a cracked teapot and a box of garibaldi's, out of sight behind an ugly orange vase_ ) had been far superior, a keen rounded edge and darkly sweet. But Old Pete's wets his lips and doesn't cost him a dime.

The bar isn't busy. A handful of patrons are scattered about, heads slung low, arms fencing off their beers possessively. Several are men Jeff recognizes – the same men in dusty checks and muddy boots that drift in each afternoon, drink, brawl, and heckle. Most are casuals, working the dockyard when there's work, pouring whiskey down their throats when there's not. Later they'll be getting rough and hot with Mary-on-the-corner or one of the other girls that fetch up nearby. Calling them names and scrabbling at pale thighs and garters.

The lights in the bar are kept dim, the windows small and grimy enough that most of the startling summer sun is kept at bay. Jeff's heard Old Pete talk about the place having an _atmosphere_ , something of Paris or Marseilles. It's been a dozen or so years since Jeff saw Europe and sipped absinthe in a damp corner of a cellar bar off the rue des Lombards, and as worn as that dark, sweaty crowded place had been it had bustled with life and fire. Bodies jammed together and the music loud. This place is nothing but faded colors and nicotine-yellow patina.

Beyond the sound of his playing he can hear the _scritch-scritch_ as men at the bar shift their drinks and stools over spilt salt.

In the corner furthest from Jeff's piano, sitting neatly so his back is pressed into the V of the walls is a kid with a buzz-cut just beginning to grow out. Jeff notices the restless twitch of his fingers across the tabletop, body held still, stiff necked and at attention. It isn't hard to guess at his story- just out of the army, all jangled nerves and bloody thoughts.

He slows the tempo.

Drifts back to the same chord sequence. Repeats. Drops the key.

There's a heap of untouched Fried Chicken in front of the kid, grease shining, slicking down onto an earthenware plate. Occasionally he'll tap a fingernail against the dish, and Jeff thinks he can almost hear the chime.

He watches the kid switch to Tequila.

Watches him as a loose slouch begins to settle into his shoulders.

There's a quirk about his mouth that Jeff would never call a smile, and a tilt to his chin that's just this side of mulish.

He wonders how long it will take for the fight to break out.

The kid is skinny, but he doesn't let that sway him. A few years in the army and he's probably all stripped down whipcord, lean and dangerous. The men at the bar with their bulk and heavy-gutted heft look stronger, but they'll be slow. Slow and over-confident.

His hands stutter a little on the keys as he starts up on 'My Funny Valentine'.

He's been in a number of bar brawls, witnessed even more from his perch on the band stand, he's come away bloody and watched any number of men end up with broken ribs and knuckles. He's never been one to start fights, but, yeah, there's been a few times when, alcohol rich in his blood and pulse thrumming in his ears, he's thrown the first punch. Got the scars to show for it too.

He doesn't need to look at the keys to hit the right notes and he watches the kid's fingers continue to twitch and fidget – there's a hint of a neat staccato rhythm to the movements now, something sharp and jagged.

Jeff wonder's if he's hearing the _thwack_ of bullets, or the steady pound of mortars.

He switches his playing so it's just a little more ragged around the edges, let's the tune have just a bit more of an edge, a little sharper, a little more deadly.

It's a moment before the kid blinks, before his eyes swing up to Jeff as if he hadn't even noticed he was there before.

Then –

Then Jeff see's a sudden flush of color in the kid's face, and those restless fingers grow still.

The kid's mouth ( _and Jeff hadn't been able to properly see it before, see the full generosity of it, the prettiness of it, almost too pretty, too pretty to belong on a soldier_ ) parts.

Jeff stops playing, and the kid is up out of his chair, feet skidding on the bare floorboards, and out of the bar before the sound has had time to die away.

It's a full eleven days before he's back again. It's near midnight this time, and by his lurching, stumbling steps the kid's already had a skin-full. He's leaning heavily on the bar, forearms braced on the drink-slopped wood, body angled out, ass clad in tight corduroy on display to every patron in the joint.

Jeff wonders if the pose is deliberate.

There are dark patches of sweat on the kid's shirt, the fabric sticking to the lean lines of him, emphasizing broad shoulders, narrow hips, the smooth planes of his back.

It's deliberate.

It must be.

Jeff's fingers seem to decide on Novello's 'Why Isn't it You?' without his say-so, the tune flowing smooth and easy and entirely too jaunty for this late at night. The kid seems determined to dart a smile at everyone in the bar that isn't Jeff. The smiles aren't that pretty. There's a little too much teeth, a little too much bite. He is throwing back shots and letting his body rub up against those next to him with no discernment.

A fucking tease.

Jeff can see that the guy to the kid's right is trying to ignore him. Head down, hands locked securely around his beer, a faint grimace on his face every time the kid bumps his hip into his side. The guy to the left though is another matter – his shoulders tense at every brush, fists clenching convulsively where they rest on the bar, a twitch in his eye.

Jeff cuts off half way through 'We'll Gather Lilacs', and takes the five quick steps over to the bar. His hand finds the kid's elbow, fingers wrapping smooth and tight around narrow bone.

There's plenty of noise; the men in the bar all talking and laughing, the scrape of chairs, the chink of glasses. Above it Jeff can hear the kid's breath fast and quiet and arrhythmic.

"Let's get out of here," he puts his mouth close to the kid's ear, knows he'll feel the words damp and soft on his neck.

There's no answer.

He doesn't let go as he pulls him from the bar. The night is hot and dry, the air still scorching in his lungs as he draws in deep breaths and tries to clear his head. The kid follows along as he starts down the path along the dock, pliant and obedient in his grasp.

Mary-on-the-corner catcalls when they pass, harsh words, all _fucking_ and _fags_ and _dirty_. But when Jeff glances at her face, make-up thick and pasty-white, she just looks bored.

The kid digs his heels in when they get to Jeff's two-room walk-up above the drugstore, braces himself and refuses to move.

"What, kid?" The street's narrow, plenty of windows overlooking them, plenty of folks who could see them, hear them. This is Southern Texas and it wouldn't take but five minutes to get a lynch-party together. "This is what you wanted." He crowds in tight into the kid's space, backs him against the wall, presses his lips close enough to taste the sheen of sweat on the kid's temple. "Fight or fuck. That's what it comes down to."

The kid swings his fist up fast, colliding with his cheekbone. It's too close, too awkward, there's no real power behind it, but pain still bloom bright across his face and he knows it'll be a swirl of black and purple painted across his skin tomorrow.

"Fuck you," he spits.

"Don't want to fight you," Jeff presses in tighter, crushing his body against the kid's at thigh and hip and chest. "Got you out of there so you wouldn't get into it with one of those guys. One of those guys it wouldn't take you five minutes to take apart- crush their windpipe or stamp on their kidneys."

He steps back, "Come on, that's why you came out tonight, you needed something, and it's a hell of a lot easier to find someone to fight with than it is someone to fuck in a town like this." Another step back and he's at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his place. "Especially if you're all turned about and scared and don't know quite what you're asking for."

He takes the stairs slowly but without looking back, and leaves his front door open.

It doesn't take as long as he'd feared until he hears the door shut behind him.

"Name's Jeff."

"Jensen."

"Nice to meet you, Jensen."

He gets out a pot of ceviche, the kid's had more than a few to drink, and whilst it might not soak up the alcohol as well as a good wedge of bread or a slab of potato, it's bound to help some. Seattle, and more especially his Mother's cooking, hadn't had anything like this – sharp and citrus and light bursting on his tongue.

Jensen is standing awkward by the door, shifting his weight from one foot to another and back again, lips pursed and eyes darting from corner to corner. It's the first opportunity for Jeff to see Jensen's eyes. Wide and green are his first thoughts. Pretty as all hell his second.

"Come grab a bite," he beckons Jensen over. Christ knows what the kid's expecting now he's here in another man's apartment.

"Thank you," Jensen murmurs.

He steps over to the record player as soon as Jensen takes a seat. Fiddles around with the vinyls whilst Jensen eats shrimp after shrimp. He finally settles on a Duke Ellington record and steps back to watch Jensen pick at his food.

The music is bright and sexy and settles into his hips faster than he can say.

"What now?" Jensen's fingers are drumming along to the rhythm on the tabletop, sharp little movements Jeff suspects he has no awareness of.

"Whatever you want."

Jensen's eyes slant away and to the side, a skittering cornered look, whilst his shoulder hunch up around his ears. "Sure. Yeah."

"Jensen?"

'Hop, Skip and Jump' starts to ring out as Jeff drops slowly to his knees in front of the kid. He smoothes a hand up Jensen's calf, letting his fingers dig in firm and hard into the muscle. Jensen shifting back and breathing hard and all manner of tense beneath his fingertips.

"Tell me what it is you want." One hand draws a vague arabesque hauntingly light on Jensen's knee, the other curls around a narrow ankle, his thumb dancing over the jut of bone.

Jensen is blinking and darting looks down at where's he's kneeling between his spread legs.

"Tell me."

"Can't."

"Because you don't know, or because you're too shy?"

Jensen shakes his head, tries to pull away. "Fuck you."

Jeff shrugs, the feel of Jensen's legs beneath his hands, hard lines of muscle and bone under worn down corduroy. It's too hot; the windows all left open, thin screens spanning the spaces, but no breeze, and Jeff can see the sheen of sweat on Jensen's face, almost taste the salt of it. He's tempted to lean forward, kiss the hollow at the base of Jensen's throat, lick the fragile skin there, feel the baked in heat of flesh against his lips. "What were you thinking earlier, back at Pete's? Seemed you had plans then."

Jensen glares at him.

Jeff pushes Jensen's knees a little further apart, insinuates his body between them a little more. Lets his hands slide up the firm length of Jensen's thighs, fingers spread wide. "Did you want one of the men to take you out back to the alleyway? Put you on your knees? Bend you over a trash can?"

Jensen's breath stutters, legs shifting impossibly wider.

"That or have one of them try to smash your teeth in, right?" Close, lips just a fraction from Jensen's own and he can smell the sharpness of lime and the sweet-sourness of tequila. He almost laughs when he spots the freckles that dust the kid's face, scattered across the bridge of his nose and the angled planes of his cheekbones. "So," he licks his own lips, "What is it you want, Jensen?"

A low sound, too little to be a moan, not even quite a sigh. "I don't..." Jensen sucks in a great breath, high color rising on his face. "Don't make me choose."

"Jensen?"

"Please."

"Okay, then," Jeff lets his voice trail off. His skims his mouth, wet and open against Jensen's.

The kiss is brief, a sharing of breath.

Jeff feels Jensen's teeth nip at his bottom lip, the sting small and sharp, tugging.

"Christ." Jeff pulls back a little, just far enough to be able to look Jensen in the eye.

"I'm," Jensen's voice falters, and he focuses somewhere over Jeff's shoulder. His lips are pink and shiny. "Please," he repeats, fingers coming up to tangle in Jeff's shirt, blunt points digging in to the muscle over his heart, small convulsive movements. "I'm good at taking orders."

"What?"

"I can't... _Please_... But I'm good at taking orders, following orders." It all comes out in a rushed whisper. "I promise, Jeff, Sir, I promise I can be good. Just tell me what..."

The record comes to an end, the needle skipping and hissing.

"Jesus, Fuck, kid." His thumb traces the strong line of Jensen's jawbone. "Christ. Okay. Yes."

He's kissing Jensen again, this time his tongue delving in deep and mapping out the shape and feel of Jensen's mouth.

It's just too hot. The heat of the nighttime air, the heat of Jensen's mouth, wet and fierce against his, the heat of Jensen's body, tipping off the chair until Jeff has his arms wrapped tight around the wide brace of his shoulders.

It's hot enough that he should be pitching himself away from Jensen, trying to get away from the intensity of his body heat, find a little space, cool off a little.

Instead he's wrapping one hand around the nape of Jensen's neck, tugging the kid in tighter, and if they keep at this much longer they're going to end up making out on his kitchen floor.

"Damn." He thinks about asking Jensen if he wants to move this to the other room and the bed with its worn cotton sheets, but Jensen is gasping quietly, eyes closed, and he doesn't think he wants to be asked anything. He smoothes his thumb along the thin, delicate skin behind Jensen's ear and waits to get his own breath back.

He can taste the ceviche from Jensen's mouth, the sharp citrus taste of it, and smell the heavy sourness of smoke and liquor sunk deep into both of their clothes and skin.

"Right." He pulls himself back and away, rocking back onto his heels and looking up at Jensen. "Up. Come on, Jensen."

His stomach gives an odd little twist as Jensen springs lightly to his feet, a feeling both hollow and sharp. Jensen's mouth is slightly parted like's just waiting to be told what to do next, all swollen lips and expectation. "Bedroom. Now." He takes his time in clambering to his own feet, knees aching and complaining.

He hadn't bothered to make the bed when he'd gotten up that morning, and the sheets are twisted and turned about, discarded clothes and random bits of sheet music scattered along the foot.

He sweeps the detritus to the floor in one move.

"Take off your clothes. All of them." Jeff deliberately doesn't look at Jensen as he settles himself on the bed, sitting with his back flush to the headboard, legs splayed wide and still fully dressed.

Jensen makes a tiny noise, low and rough, and Jeff take a breath before he draws his eyes up and over to him.

Naked Jensen is narrow muscle and freckled skin. He's pale and slight for all the muscles that line his chest and broaden his shoulders, his waist and hips tapering enough for him to almost be scrawny. If the kid's still here come morning Jeff's gonna feed him up on ranch eggs and orange juice whether he likes it or not.

There's a couple scars that interrupt the swathes of smooth skin, small puckered-up ribbons of white stretched around the meat of Jensen's upper arm, and forming a jagged line from just beneath his left nipple until it almost reaches his navel.

Jeff shifts a little, wonders if it would be cruel to tell Jensen to walk back into the other room, turn on some more music, something to break the silence.

"How..." He rubs a hand over his face, scrubbing at the stubble that's beginning to itch around his jaw. He looks back at Jensen, body tense, held strictly upright, spine snapped rigid. "Come closer."

Jensen steps up close to the side of the bed, and from here Jeff can see the pink flush in his cheeks, a warm rosy color that could be any mix of embarrassment, arousal, or alcohol.

"It's alright. You can stand easy."

And just like that, Jensen's left foot steps out in line with his shoulder and his arms move fluidly back, hands interlocking at the small of his back.

"Fuck, kid..."

"Jeff? Sir?"

"It's okay. It's all okay." Sweat is making his shirt stick to him, uncomfortable across his shoulder-blades, and tickling down his sides. "What have you done before, Jensen? What are you experienced in?"

Jensen's lips purse, eyes darting to the side.

"Jensen? Not a suggestion. Tell me."

"I... Just, in Holland, one night, when we were... It was dark and it was just, just hands, nothing more."

 _Jesus_. "Okay then." It isn't something Jeff needs to picture right then, Jensen in uniform, in a warzone, nervous and desperate in the nighttime, blood and death all around him, a large hand jerking him off, trying to stifles his gasps. "That's fine." The blush is deepening on Jensen's face, the color flooding down his throat and onto his chest. "Come on, up on the bed, kid."

Jensen looks awkward and ungainly crouched on the edge of the bed, unsure without more specific orders what's expected of him. Jeff smiles and tries to think of what to say next. It isn't that he's not used to being in control, but this level of explicit instruction is making his head reel.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, as his hand find Jensen's shoulder, thumb pressing hard into the firm muscle there. The only light is from the kitchen, grown thin and filled with shadows, gilding the pale planes of Jensen's back, and thighs, and arms. He's leaning forward to kiss Jensen again, before sliding his lips along a sharp jawline, and down Jensen's throat. His hands groping round until they are skimming up and down the bony length of Jensen's spine.

Jensen's own hands are busy trying to balance himself, one gripping a fistful of the bedsheets, the other clawing at Jeff's leg, high up near his hip.

Jeff's mouth has just found that small hollow at the base of Jensen's throat, that tiny vulnerable place where he can taste sweat, and feel the flutter of Jensen's pulse against his tongue, when his hand encounters a wicked scrawl of raised rucked-up flesh, and Jensen is suddenly trying to pull away.

"Sweetheart? What? Stop." He pulls Jensen back towards him, manhandling and twisting him round until Jensen is between his legs, facing outwards, hunched-over and trembling- rage, humiliation, spite.

Spreading out from the center of Jensen's shoulder-blade is a starburst of scar-tissue.

The span of it is greater than Jeff's hand, a swarm of broken lines and serrated points, dead-white solid mass.

"It doesn't fucking matter."

Jeff is tracing the very edge of the scar with one finger, right where it pinkens into living flesh. "Huh?"

"Means fucking nothing." Jensen flinches forward. "Ignore it. It doesn't mean anything and I don't fucking need you fussing over it. It doesn't hurt, can't even feel it."

"I take it you don't want to talk about it?"

Jensen shoots a glare over his shoulder. "If you want me to go, just say so."

"No, no, that's not it." Jeff shakes his head, and slips an arm around Jensen's waist to tug him back. "Come 'ere." He pulls until Jensen is snug against him, naked back pressed to his still-clothed chest, ass slotted back tight into the V of his legs. He kisses the nape of Jensen's neck. "That's better."

He lets his hands take over again, stroking and pinching, finding all the little places that make Jensen startle in his arms. The fingers of one hand latch onto the kid's nipple, thumb ghosting over the tip, while his other hand kneads at Jensen's belly. "Okay, now?" He presses light, damp kisses all along the back of Jensen's neck, sucking a soft bruise into the knob at the top of his spine.

Slowly, by degrees, Jensen unwinds, body surrendering its hard-fought tension, and slipping back to rest fully against the wide support of Jeff's chest.

"Now, this is how things are going to go," Jeff rolls his hips up, lets Jensen feel how much he wants this through the confines of his clothes. "You are going to stay here, just like this," the hand that has been rubbing at Jensen's belly begins a slow descent, still pressing and tickling. "And you aren't going to fight me on anything I decide to do." Jensen's cock is heavy and full, burning hot in his grasp. He feels Jensen trying to stay his movements, trying to resist pushing into the warm tunnel Jeff's hand has made around him. "Neither are you going to fight me or anything I decide not to do."

"What?" Jeff smiles at the thin, rough quality of Jensen's voice.

"And lastly," Jeff continues, ignoring Jensen's interruption. "You don't get to fight yourself either. I don't want to see you struggling to keep yourself still, or hear you biting back your moans. That understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Jensen gasps.

"Good." Jeff rewards him with a rather sloppy kiss on the neck, and a swipe of his fingers around the head of his cock. "That's good."

Jensen bucks up, head back, eyes shut, and Jeff drinks in the sight. Jensen's moans are musical, a low, growling sound that makes him think of the best Bluesmen, who smoke forty a day and drink nothing but whiskey. The noises Jensen makes are pure heartbreak and want.

"There you go," Jeff speeds his hand, his own breath short from having Jensen squirming and writhing in his lap, all sweat and flushed skin, chest heaving and hips dancing staccato.

Jensen tries to reach back, fumbling awkwardly at Jeff's button-fly, fingers numb with sensation, but Jeff captures his wrist and tuts softly.

It was never going to last over long. There's too much heat and tension in the room, too much sweat, too many delays. Jeff puts his teeth to Jensen's shoulder, worries at it, whilst his hand presses firmer, twists and strokes faster, and it's only another minute before Jensen gasps and stutters and damn-near jack-knifes out of Jeff's grasp as he comes, cursing and breathless.

"Sweetheart, so good, so very good," Jeff kisses behind Jensen's ear, while Jensen gulps air desperately.

"Fuck. Fuck." Jensen twists round so he's lying on top of Jeff, face pressed into the crook of his neck. "Fuck. I..."

"Did so well." Jeff smoothes a touch down the kid's back and over the pleasing round of his ass. "Did just want I told you to."

"Uh-huh." Jensen sounds near sleep, voice full of lazy syllables and soft drawl. "What 'bout you?" He shimmies a little to press the heel of his hand to Jeff's still cloth encased cock.

Jeff swallows back his own groan. "Just sleep, Jensen. I'll sort myself out tonight, you just get a bit of rest." Jensen murmurs some indistinct reply and curls in closer, and Jeff finds himself humming a little beneath his breath.

It's creeping closer to dawn, and another searingly hot day, and Jeff smiles, shifting Jensen a little to the side, hooked half under his arm, and thinks about adding a counterpoint to the tune he's working on.


End file.
